


Beneath, Lies The Heart

by Hiemallily



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Instincts, Blood, Bodily Fluids, Brainwashing, Breastfeeding, Child Death, Child Loss, Childbirth, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Mpreg, Omega Bucky Barnes, Omega Verse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 03:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12597620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiemallily/pseuds/Hiemallily
Summary: The Winter Soldier always obeys his orders. He is loyal and resilient. He’ll finish his mission. Even as he finds himself having to choose the recipients of his loyalties. Even if that mission is truly to something more than he knew.In which Bucky is inhumanely impregnated by HYDRA, then sent out to chase a target they have only one chance to catch. An untimely decision that costs him dearly.[Deleting soon]





	Beneath, Lies The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I’ve had floating for a while. I watch a lot of crime/hiest movies, so that’s part of the inspiration, if anything happens to be specifically recognizable from elsewhere. This was originally meant to be part of a multi-chapter fic, then it developed a mind of its own. So now it’s my first completed work. Enjoy the pain

 

 

 

 

The lights in his cloudy vision were blinding but he stared up at them anyway, unmoving. He felt his body, heavy and limp on a hard surface but there was nothing more than a distant tingle in his limbs. It burned as more feeling returned to them and he started to tremble, flexing his fingers sporadically. He heard voices but he couldn’t understand what they were saying past the ringing in his ears. The room seemed to gradually slow from its spinning.

He finally peeled his eyes off the lights and looked forward. There were figures in white and black all around him but he couldn’t make out any of their faces.

There was a strange burning in his lower belly. It started to spread through him, heating him up like a furnace and causing a strange throbbing between his legs.

One of the figures moved closer to him, coming up to his side and sliding a blurred hand up the length of his shining gray left arm. He felt the touch but not directly.

The man bent down, face coming close enough to his that his features came slightly into focus. Bright gray eyes and a slight upward curve to his mouth. He blinked slowly up at him.

The man’s lips moved as he spoke to him. It sounded thick and heavily muffled. He could barely hear it. But his eyes widened. It snapped something on in his brain, seeming to fit into an empty spot like a puzzle piece.

“ _Good morning, soldier. Do not be afraid_...”

He stared at the man. His eyes were kind. He reached out and touched him again.

He backed away slowly. Then hands grasped his arms, startling him. It felt like acid activated in his veins as his body was lifted off the surface. His head fell back at the lack of control in his neck and swayed when he was pulled upright. His lungs ached when he gasped as more hands dug into his skin, grabbing his ribs. His arms were pulled painfully over uniformed shoulders.

His head hung as he registered the ground moving under him. He couldn’t gather his feet as he was dragged across the cold surface.

He was half blind. He had no coordination. His feet skidded on the rough floor as he was brought to a wall and thrown against it. His arms were stretched above his head and his wrists were fastened with metal and leather clasps, held by chains and cords attached above him.

They backed away from him, letting go all at once and he made a pained sound as his arms were yanked when his legs gave out under him.

They left him to twitch awkwardly in the restraints as he tried to gain his footing. His eyesight still hadn’t fully come to him. His muscles ached and stung as the feeling tried to return to them, and the strange burn in his belly started to pulse more intensely.

Everything was happening too quickly for him to process. Another body was suddenly pressed up against his from behind. It was muscular and solid and huge hands grasped his hips. He choked as the scent crowded his throat and nose, incensing the fire in his core to a blaze. A smooth, masculine voice came into focus, breath hot against his ear.

“...You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this,” the man said in a heady voice.

He could do nothing but squirm as large hands found their way under the waistband of his pants. They were forced down and they fell around his feet.

It felt like a hot brand as something was forced between his legs, contradicting in sharp pain and overwhelming relief to the festering burn in his core. He threw his head back and gasped as he was shoved forward roughly.

Teeth grazed and gnawed at his neck. He flinched as thick, prickly stubble nuzzled roughly at his jawline. A voice murmured in his ear, breathy with arousal. The rough wall scraped his bare skin over and over until it was raw.

It hurt. It hurt so bad and no angle he moved to, no amount of squirming or struggling helped to ease it up. All he could do was weakly spasm in a stunned haze as the hard body crushed against his, merciless and unrelenting. Feeble cries escaped him with every harsh probe.

He stayed behind him for a while. His whole demeanor seemed to change, stroking his body affectionately with rough hands instead of hurting him.

He slumped when he pulled away, leaving him disoriented and trembling. His arms were terribly sore and his head flopped. He tried to make sense of everything that just happened, but he was too shaken.

The man with kindness in his eyes had told him not to be afraid. He must’ve misunderstood.

His eyes closed as he fell still in his shock and exhaustion, losing feeling in his wrists and arms in the pull of the chains. It felt like forever before the other men returned.

He was brought back under the bright lights in a blur of motion. Pushed back onto the hard surface that he now saw was a strange looking chair. A primal, familiar fear returned to him in a flood at the sight of it. His breathing went shallow as he was maneuvered and restrained to it. Heavy clasps closed around his arms. Something was shoved into his mouth and he quivered as his body was suddenly jerked into a new position.

He saw the man who had spoken to him kindly. He looked at him with terrified eyes but he only stood there, watching what was happening to him.

He knew this pain. For some reason, he knew what was about to happen to him. He whimpered as a strange device closed around his head, struggling and squirming uselessly. Fists clenched as his terror overtook him. He closed his eyes tight as hot tears spilled down his face.

He arched as the pain like knives twisting in his temples consumed all of his senses. Sharp, burning sparks like hot razor blades skittering under the surface of his skull. He howled in agony as his vision flashed with white, the blinding lights now seemed to burn with hot beams that stabbed into his eyes.

He collapsed against the chair when it finally ended. There were blinding bright lights above him, hurting his eyes but he stared up at them anyway.

There were tears on the sides of his face.

                    ____________

_1978_

There’s a tightness in his belly. It increases periodically, throwing off his breathing and making his back ache, but he ignores the pain and continues pushing the coins into the vending machine. He listens to the clattering sounds they make, watches the way the small milk carton moves through the metal spiral before it falls.

There are 2 cameras in the building total. One of them is currently out of commission.

It’s late. The security agent occupying the back room has left his station for a break. He might be back in around 15 minutes. He might be back later than that. He doesn’t take his duty very seriously. Likely because he’s been working here a long time with very little excitement.

The Asset has to go by the first possibility. He can’t take any chances.

He reaches down and grabs the carton out of the machine, feeling the bulge of his protruding stomach limit the movement and force him to have to bend his knees slightly. His combat gear is hidden under civilian clothes. A scarf and a thin brown jacket covers the neck-high armored vest. The way it constricts his body combined with the practical quality of the outer layers hides his swollen figure and enlarged breasts fairly well. So far, no one seems to have guessed.

He turns and heads toward the stairs, climbing to the third floor, where his room is.

His target’s room is on the second. Room 43.

He’s gone right now. But he should be back in approximately an hour. Or less.

He swipes his key card, pushing into the cool, dark space. He’d brought in only a leather duffel bag with him for cover. And several concealed weapons.

It’s been 3 hours since he’d checked in and he’s already scanned the status, work patterns, and habits of the personnel. The housekeeping all left about an hour ago, leaving just the desk clerk, likely the MOD, and the agent. They’re all betas, apart from 1 or 2 omegas on the maintenance staff. His scent signature is no longer a forefront concern.

She’s a smoker. He’d smelled it on her the moment he stepped through the door. She’s waiting for the security agent to return, and when he does, she’ll be heading out for another smoke. She’ll close the door to the back office before she does so.

When the agent returns, he’ll enter the room again, punching in the key code one last time.

If he doesn’t come back within 15 minutes, she’ll head out anyway.

The agent has 30 minutes left of lock up before he leaves for the night. If not sooner. The Asset will be headed down again. With the appearance of going to his car. He’ll wait in it until the time is right.

The hotel is low rated. A lackluster security system and less than impressive service. It doesn’t make much sense why the back office would have such an advanced lock. It’s likely that it was only installed to increase staff morale on the effectiveness of their system.

His target had chosen this hotel as a means to remain inconspicuous. Completely oblivious to the advantage that gives the Asset.

He’s already picking this place apart at the seams.

He doesn’t drink the milk. He turns the bathroom light on and pours it down the sink. He removes the leather glove from his flesh hand and starts to tear the carton along the edges, opening it up until it’s flat. Then, with intricate fingers, he careful peels up a single sheet of the thin, waxy resin coating the outside.

He holds it up in front of the light. Little pieces of the paint had stuck to it, but it will do. He delicately places it on the gloved palm of his metal hand, mindful to keep it flattened to ensure it retains its adhesiveness. He tosses the rest of the carton in the trash.

Another constricting pain ignites in his abdomen. His mouth drops open and he nearly gasps. He breathes through it, exhaling slowly until the muscles relax.

It’s been 10 minutes.

The agent is going to take his time. The desk clerk is going to do things more by the book because of her administrative position, though there are many things that she lets slip past her attention.

She shouldn’t be a problem. As long as she remains that way.

It’s time for him to go. He carefully folds his metal fingers over the wax sheet and places it in the front pocket of his jacket. Flipping the light off, he closes the door softly behind him and stalks down the hallways.

The woman doesn’t even look at him when he walks past, her hands too busy pushing at the short, curly bouffant of her strangely orange-ish hair. Her hoop earrings dangle with the movement.

He pushes through the door and turns left, crossing the parking lot to the car and feeling the bite of the wind on his face. He draws the air into his mouth, tasting it for scent signatures. There’s no one in the vicinity. The nearest sign of human life outdoors is about 70 yards away. They won’t hear or see what he’s about to do. He climbs into the car.

His eyes lock on the woman the moment he closes himself in, watching her every movement from behind the glass front door. He takes a moment to look at the windows of the building. All of them are dark and covered by blinds apart from one on the far end that’s very dimly lit by the glow of a bedside lamp. It isn’t long before it flicks off.

He feels another familiar movement within him. A writhing sensation. Something pushing against the inner walls of his abdomen and putting pressure on his bladder. He ignores it, but more tight pain follows, threatening to obstruct his focus. He purses his lips and trains his eyes back on the desk clerk, not taking them off of her, deliberately deepening his breaths until it eases up.

It’s about 7 minutes before he sees her glance at the clock on the wall. Her reaction is irritated as she shuffles to grab her cigarettes and he watches her mutter to herself as she leaves the front desk.

She walks out of the building and stands on the curb of the sidewalk, lighting her smoke. She shields the flame with a gnarled hand, fingers adorned with too many glittery rings and tipped with long, overly manicured nails.

She juts out a hip and crosses an arm around her middle, staring out at the darkness of the night. He quietly exits the car, approaching her from the side. She glances at him when he passes but doesn’t give him anything else. He opens the door so it chimes.

Everything falls silent. Then he closes his metal hand around her throat, curling his fingers quickly and precisely so he crushes her windpipe but doesn’t break the skin. He grabs her as she spasms, dropping the still burning cigarette.

He quickly drags her off, away from the light of the building and into the shadows of the trees while she writhes in his hold, clawing at her damaged throat. She sputters and gurgles as blood bubbles from her lips and drips down her chin.

He dumps her deep into the bushes as the last of the fight dies out of her. Her twitches finally cease and he kicks dead leaves and foliage over her body. It will definitely be a bit of a head-scratcher to investigators. There will be deep bruising around her throat but no fingerprints or DNA to coincide.

He quickly heads back into the building, slipping past the front desk and to the door of the back office. He pulls the piece of wax resin out of his pocket, looking it over quickly before smoothing it over the flat buttons of the keypad.

He slips back out and makes a hasty exit from the building, moving back to the shadowy spot that he’d dumped the woman’s body. The agent should be returning any minute. He’ll realize that something is wrong.

He crouches against the corner of the building, letting the wall shield him and peering out from behind it as he waits for the beta, keeping his ears and eyes alert.

Minutes later, he hears the jingle of keys in a pocket and the heavy-set man trudges for the door, opening it and stepping inside. The Asset waits. Another few minutes and the man comes back out, as he’d expected. He steps down off the sidewalk and places his hands on his hips, glances around with confusion and frustration, clearly looking for the woman.

He lets out an exasperated sound. “Goddammit Meredith, I’m tired ‘o your shit,” he mutters out loud into the night air. He looks down at the ground and the Asset sees something catch his eyes. It’s the cigarette.

The man furrows his brows at it and leans down to pick it up, turning it quizzically in his hand as he notices that it’s still fairly whole. He looks up again, confusion and now a hint of nervousness on his round features. He looks behind him, then from left to right, before he shrugs and gingerly reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a lighter of his own and lights the end of the unfinished smoke, walking farther out into the parking lot.

He loses all of his original incentive, gazing leisurely up at the stars as he stops in the middle of the stretch of asphalt. He exhales a long, slow column of smoke.

Then his breath hitches and he jolts, eyes flying wide. A tight sound escapes his throat before he falls forward, hitting the gravelly concrete with a solid thud. The long beams of light cast by the hotel front reveal the knife in the center of his back, a dark blood stain blooming rapidly around it.

The Asset clears the distance quickly and pulls his knife out, wiping it clean on the man’s shirt, then drags his heavy body to the shadows too. Now, without either of them hindering his objective, he can finish this.

He heads behind the front desk again. He peels the wax resin off the keypad and holds it up to observe it. Sure enough, the agent’s fingerprints smudge it, in the exact sequence of the numbers in the key code. The Asset punches it in with his metal hand. It works, and he closes himself inside.

It doesn’t take him long to hack their system. They kept their passwords on a notecard, buried in the back of the computer desk’s drawer under a stack of manila files. He finds his target’s personal card information amongst a dozen other guests’, memorizing it in his head before he deletes it.

By the time he’s finished, he holds a new keycard. The information on it is completely identical to that of his target’s. He tucks it in the opposite pocket of his own card, before he stands to leave.

He stops in front of the door, listening intently for a moment for any signs of life outside of it. He doesn’t catch anything.

His focus becomes undaunted and sharpened to an unnatural edge as he moves silently through the narrow hallway. He enters his own room. This will be the last time he does.

His lips are pursed as he sheads his outer shell. He slides the scarf off his neck, drops the jacket from his shoulders, takes the hat off. He puts on his mask, doing his best to adjust the clasps around the back of his head. He doesn’t like it. It’s tight and makes it harder to breath and scent, but it’s part of protocol that he wear it.

Finally, he pulls the tie from his hair. It falls back around his face in waves.

He stands in the middle of the room, now barely more than a silhouette in his full tac suit. He adjusts his weapons in his holsters, feeling the tenderness of his swollen breasts as he tightens the buckles on his chest straps.

He stills suddenly when he feels a gentle spasm within him. His eyes stay forward as he lets his flesh hand fall to his stomach to slowly run over the tough material covering the firm roundness. He holds his hand just under it after following a specific trail of squirms, catching just the right moment that a tiny extremity pushes outward into his palm.

Then another surge of pain grips him, interrupting the impulsive moment of exploration. His hand flexes as he clutches his belly, squinting his eyes shut and biting back a groan as he huffs quietly behind the mask. This one is a little worse. He opens his eyes again, narrowing them in determination when the tightness starts to let up. It’s time to go.

He heads for the stairs to the second floor, quickly and silently as a phantom. He slows down and creeps forward down the dimly lit hallway, eyes flickering to the doors lining it as he watches for any sign that one of them might open.

He stops at his target’s door. Room 43. He pulls the identical keycard from his pocket and swipes it. It works, and the Asset slips inside into the pitch blackness, closing it quietly behind him.

*****

There’s a sliver of light in the darkness as the door softly clicks open. The man has a single plastic bag in his hand. He flips the bathroom light on as he passes it, casting weak beams into the room that leaves half of it still in total shadow. He crosses to the back end and obliviously carries on, dropping his bag on the bed and digging for something in his brown suit pocket, head lowered.

Then he freezes.

He doesn’t dare move. Only his eyes flicker to the dark figure perched in a chair in the opposite corner of the room. The Asset stares at the man with cold blue eyes reflecting the white light. Watching his target’s every move.

The man swallows audibly, before cautiously clearing his throat.

“I don’t know why you’re here, because I already told you people that I have no business with you anymore.”

The Asset doesn’t move or respond. Solid like an obsidian statue with flickering chips of ice for eyes.

“I got you what you wanted”, the target says in a level voice that’s just on the threshold of shaking. “Like I said, that little tidbit with my colleague that you’re so concerned about isn’t an issue.”

The Asset has no idea what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know why this man is his target. He wasn’t told the story. He just knows that nothing he says here is going to preserve him.

He starts to turn more fully to the Asset. He’s clearly a beta, because he doesn’t seem to be reacting to any scents the Asset is emitting. But he’s starting to panic with the omega’s disturbing and drawn-out silence. Shoving his hand into his deep brown hair and making gestures with the other. Slapping his sides every time he shrugs. Working himself up. “Look, wha’dyou want from me? It was a covert-op. I already got you the files. I should be completely out of the picture. Now I’m just the delivery man,” he states, gesturing to the slim black briefcase on the bed. His voice is getting higher pitched. His eyes are growing wider.

He shakes his head, “It wasn’t a big deal. She didn’t find anything out, it was just a—I just needed her help, okay? It was a business tactic. We do it all the time.”

He’s rambling. The Asset hasn’t said a thing to him and the man is coming apart.

“You know what? I should’ve reported you a long time ago.” His tone is getting aggressive. His gestures are getting bigger. “You knew from the beginning that I could’ve taken your information straight to the DOD, but I didn’t. I could’ve exposed you all, but I chose not to. I should’ve listened to my gut.”

Apart from the looming threat of the Asset’s presence, the man is creating his own stressors. Weak minded. Cracking under pressure. If this were an interrogation, the Asset would already be walking out with his information.

A little psychological torment. It’s what his superiors had wanted.

He waits for his target to make the first move.

“Fine. You want the case? Here, take it,” he says, flinging a hand out toward the briefcase.

Silence.

“I said take it!” He screams maniacally, shoving the briefcase off the bed. It clatters onto the floor in the same moment the man stumbles back and crashes into the wall unit, clutching the bullet wound on his shoulder.

The Asset is standing with his gun trained on the man, eyes narrowed and almost blackened in the darkness.

The man cowers, shielding himself. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, alright?”

Then a light of realization ignites in his eyes as he sees the Asset’s swollen figure more fully. But it’s gone in a flash.

His voice is small, “Please just...don’t—“

He doesn’t finish before he pulls his own gun in a lighting-fast draw. The bullet bounces off the Asset’s metal arm and he’s across the room, sending his metal fist into the wall where the target’s head had ducked out of the way only milliseconds before.

He apparently takes advantage of the newfound observation about his assailant and delivers a kick to the side of the Asset’s belly from his place on the floor. It blots out his vision in black and white and he cries out in agony.

But his target doesn’t get the chance to stand fully before a powerful backhand sends him snapping back down with a sickening knock of bone against floor. He drags him up like a ragdoll with a fistful of his collar, the plates of his prosthetic shifting with a distinct sheering _whirr_  before he violently throws him across the room. He flips over the bed and hits the other wall with a thud, leaving a body-sized dent.

That will have alerted a number of the hotel guests. There’s no point in silence now.

The man tries feebly to crawl away in a scramble but the Asset is too fast. He grabs the man’s arm and steps on it with a steel-toed boot, crushing the elbow. The target throws his head back in a scream but it’s cut off when the Asset yanks a fistful of his hair and shoves his knife into his neck. He flings the blade outward and creates a wide gash in his throat that lays the flesh to ribbons. It sends blood spraying all the way to the door, spattering every surface in an intricate array of dark droplets.

The Asset lets the man’s head drop into the already expanding pool of blood. A little extra pain and brutalization. It was part of his orders. It’s what his superiors had wanted.

The Asset’s head snaps up at the sound of a thundering cavalry of footsteps coming from the hallway, approaching fast. Distant chatter that grows louder by the second.

A heavy pounding on the door and several angry shouts startle the Asset further. A gruff voice projects through it. “What the hell is going on in there!? Can’t anyone get a wink of sleep around here?”

Another yells, “I heard screams! I already called the police!”

The Asset is off the target’s body that second, snatching the briefcase off the floor and dashing to the window. He leaps and crashes through it. His boots hit the ground, following a shower of glass raining down onto the concrete. He shoots off running down the side alley, keeping close to the tree line until he can disappear through it.

He hears police sirens in the distance.

*****

He can’t ignore it any longer. He makes his way down the wet, darkened alley, avoiding puddles and direct light while staying close to the brick wall. He stops and crouches beside a rusting dumpster, one he had stuffed extra clothes behind. He tugs them out and starts to put them on over his gear, pulling his mask off and hiding his weapons on the inside pockets of the gunmetal gray fatigue jacket. He tucks his hair behind his ears and places a cap on his head.

He freezes when he hears a noise and snaps his head to the street. He watches a shadowed figure exit a building across it. The man walks to the end of the sidewalk, climbs in his car, and drives off. Apart from the distant roar of city commotion, everything falls quiet again as he prepares to move from his hiding spot.

He doesn’t get the chance before the another flash of pain hits again in full, seizing in his abdomen and shooting up his back. He stifles a groan and leans against the side of the cold metal, trying to steady his breathing until it passes. The tightness gradually releases and he exhales when it’s gone. Then it dawns on him.

He’s going into labor.

It makes sense now. The pains he’s been feeling are contractions.

But it doesn’t feel right. The timing feels off. He has no sense of how long it’s been. Doesn’t remember when he’d conceived or why. But this has to be wrong.

He can’t blame it entirely on the fight with his target. His pains had begun many hours before. But they‘ve gotten worse since the man’s attack.

Surely his superiors understand his true due date, and wouldn’t have sent him on this mission otherwise? If that’s the truth, then they have no idea what’s happening to him.

Which means he’s entirely on his own.

His thoughts immediately lapse into emergency conduct. At this point, he is to make his way back to the extraction point by strict orders. No divergence. He’d parked the Cortina about a block down, across the street from the bank building on the corner. He’s currently 2 hours and 36 minutes away from the location. But he’d been told to drive roughly the speed limit in order to remain inconspicuous. If he gets caught, it’ll be all over.

Nearly 3 hours of driving, combined with the amount of time it will take for the extraction team to arrive after he gets there...It would be too late.

His heart races as he tries to run though the pros and cons. Weighing out his options. There’s hardly ever room for compromising orders, no matter what the circumstance. But the rate at which his contractions are increasing, he could end up stranded and forced to deliver in the cramped car, where the task would be extremely difficult to ensure he and the pups all survive the process. His size is fairly modest, but he has no idea of the number he’s carrying. Without that crucial information, he has no way of properly judging whether an emergency delivery in the car will be a success. He would be helpless and inevitably attract attention to himself. It would also make his superiors’ task of finding him and his newborns considerably harder.

Or, ideally, and if time works in his favor, his labor will last long enough that he could push on to his destination and hopefully arrive in time to begin there. Then they would find him.

They‘ll know what to do to help him. His superiors always know what to do. That’s all he has to count on.

It’s his best option. His _only_ option. He has to at least try.

He can’t disobey direct orders. He _can’t_. It could cost him and his superiors dearly if he fails this follow up.

Another harsh contraction grips his belly, interrupting his torrent of thoughts and reminding him that he has to move. _Now_. He needs to try to make this work.

He’ll obey his orders. He’ll finish his mission.

He can’t waste any time. He makes one last cautious survey of the area as soon as the pressure passes, peering out from behind the dumpster. He stands, picks up the briefcase, and makes his way to the end of the alley, peeking out past the brick wall and glancing up and down the streets. There’s an average buzz of life for this time of night, but if he acts natural, he can easily slip by without drawing attention to himself. The air grows chillier on his fully exposed face as he passes the edge of the wall. He pulls up the collar on his jacket and tilts his hat down, letting his hair partially obstruct his face. He adopts a quick pace but is careful not to strain or overexert himself. He doesn’t want to accelerate his condition.

He weaves between narrowly placed bollards, steps down over the curb, and quickly crosses the street. He shoves one hand in a pocket for good measure and casually glances behind him. No one is following, so he picks up the pace slightly.

He keeps his head low as a woman passes him, tries not to flinch away as a man walks by with a dog that moves to sniff at him. He finally reaches the corner and steps down onto the blacktop, crossing it to get to the car. As he approaches, he spots two men leaning against the wall at the top of a few concrete steps outside of a bowling alley, smoking cigarettes and murmuring lowly to each other as colorful lights flash in the windows behind them. He deliberately relaxes his movements, staying mindful of them but appearing to ignore the two entirely.

Another contraction overtakes him as he grasps for the key in his pocket. He grits his teeth as he tries to continue, forcing himself to stay quiet. The key doesn’t want to turn and he reinserts it several times, but the lock is suddenly jammed.

This one is fractionally more powerful than the last, and he finds himself leaning against the door, puffing quietly. Still shuffling the key in the lock.

“Hey buddy, you okay?”

He stiffens, heart lurching as he realizes that the inquiry was directed at him. Fortunately, the pressure finally starts to wane. He stops jiggling the key, slowly pushes his weight off the car, and turns his head just enough to glimpse the two men from the corner of his eye.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he says in a low but steady voice.

The man speaking raises an eyebrow, “You sure? You don’t look so good.” He takes another drag of his cigarette as he finishes the statement. The other man casually watches the situation beside him.

He’s pressing. The Asset has to figure out a way to cut this off quickly without raising any more questions about his state or behavior. If they find him suspicious, they might follow him, or send someone after him. If they find out about his problem, they might not leave him alone. He can’t risk either. He’s losing time.

He turns more toward them, exposing only a little more of his face and raising his voice slightly. “Just...been a long day. I’m okay. Really,” he insists. He makes sure his tone is friendly but inviting no further conversation. He offers them a straight, close-mouthed smile.

The man eyes him for a moment longer, looking as if he’s debating on pushing the issue further. The Asset gradually continues trying at the lock, holding his breath until the man finally shrugs.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he muses, placing the cigarette back between his lips, “Guess, you have a good night then.”

The lock finally gives and he floods with relief, opening the door. “Thank you. You too,” he quickly replies, throwing one last glance back at the two men and nodding, before climbing into the car.

He releases a breath the moment he feels the concealing quiet of the vehicle’s interior. He throws the briefcase under the back seat, stuffs the key in the ignition and turns it on, wasting no time in pulling away from the curb and the unsettling encounter. His clock is ticking.

He’s barely a block away before the next contraction hits. His grip on the wheel tightens, the plastic and leather creaking under the force of his hold. He focuses on deep in and out breaths, realizing with dread that they won’t be reducing in spans of time or intensity from this point forward.

He has to drive nearly 3 hours like this, and they’ll only grow steadily worse. Until he can’t fight what his body is telling him. Until he can no longer resist what he needs to do.

But he can’t stop. He won’t let himself. He has to obey his orders. He has to get to the extraction point.

He makes it out of the city in about 20 minutes with the minimal traffic, exiting onto the freeway. He stops not long after to remove his civilian clothes and put his mask back on.

The landscape slowly grows flatter, only low hills rising above the horizon. He fights to maintain control as contraction after contraction takes him.

He makes it about an hour and 11 minutes before it becomes unbearable.

The muscle spasms are powerful and consuming and getting closer together. He tries to keep his eyes on the dark road ahead but each new ripple of pain throws him off to an increasingly dangerous degree.

He has to stop. He isn’t going to make it. He feels something pushing inside him. Something that needs to get out.

He comes to an almost swerving stop on the side of the road as a particularly intense spasm feels like a rock scraping against his insides, making his opening feel like something is stuffed in it at the wrong angle. It’s electrical and makes him whine with pain. He tries to think clearly as his whole body seizes up. The mental stress at the thought of disobeying orders only makes the pain worse.

But this is his only chance to ensure that this happens safely. If he keeps going, he could risk a much more disastrous experience.

And now, it isn’t just his own life at risk.

He sits there for several minutes as a paralyzing, deep-set fear settles in the pit of his stomach. But he doesn’t stay stuck in it for long before he let’s out a sound between a groan and a cry at another contraction that makes him throw his head back into the headrest, ultimately making the decision for him.

He pulls off again. He catches the next off-ramp into a small town, trying to drive slowly through its narrow streets. Houses line every block. This is a problem.

It isn’t long before he spots a closed corner store. Only a few dim, artificial lights illuminate the inside. Small business and clearly low budget, it’s unlikely that there are any cameras or alarms. He can make quick work of it and be out with hopefully few signs of his activity. If he can manage.

He pulls past it and parks a short distance up the street, spilling from the car and stalking toward it. He avoids the direct beam of the street lamp. A dark, masked figure with purposeful, almost frantic movements would be unsettling enough to see under the eerie orange light at this hour, without anyone noticing that he’s headed for the back of the building rather than the front.

Just as he’d suspected, there’s a back entrance, half hidden amongst a few small trees and a large bush. Or exit, because as he’d also suspected, there’s no handle on this side. Weather-worn and paint chipped, there’s patches of rust visible on the edges. This shouldn’t be too hard.

He feels relief the moment he falls under the shadows of the shrubbery, doing one last sweeping glance around him to ensure no one may be in range. All is clear, so he turns and throws a powerful punch with his metal fist at the spot where the door meets the door frame. It crushes the concrete and creates a dent in the metal, which allows him to stuff his metal fingers into the crease. It takes a moment for the metal to give more, but it starts to dip under the force, allowing his fingers to slip further inside and widening the gap. He pries it open far enough that he can grasp the door fully, pulling harder when he feels the catch of the handle.

He tries to keep the rest of the task as quiet as possible apart from the creaking of the metal, avoiding ripping the door off its hinges entirely. They’ll definitely know someone was here now. It wasn’t really possible to avoid. His options are limited.

Another contraction hits as he continues to pull, but he can’t let it slow him down. He steadies himself against the rough wall with his flesh hand in the last moments before the door finally gives. He’s nearly biting the inside of his lip, holding back a strained sound as the lock snaps. A chunk of metal flies off as the door jerks open partially, just enough space to allow him to slip inside.

He squeezes through, puffing as the last of the contraction passes. He yanks the ruined door closed behind him.

He’s in a storage room. It’s dark, but he can see the basic shapes around him and uses the various scents in the space to move forward. The light becomes more visible as he finds the entrance to the next room. He passes a restroom and the back office before he sees the store lights under the last door, pushing it open into the main area.

He needs to move fast, preparing to make a mad scramble for supplies. He feels the painful urge growing with each passing minute, and it won’t be much longer before he can’t control it anymore.

He doesn’t have much to work with, judging by what he sees as he stalks through the isles, but he’ll make do.

Thinking fast, he spots hand bags hanging on a rack near the front counter. He snatches one and grabs a small flashlight he sees nearby. He runs through a makeshift list in his head as he shoves it into the bag, whipping around to head toward the back of the store.

There’s definitely a strange collection of merchandise, but it’s not unuseful. There’s no blankets or towels, but there’s a small clothing selection near the back. He rips through the racks, tossing some items aside and suddenly stops as he feels the material of a long cream-colored shawl, rubbing it between his flesh fingers. It’s almost feathery soft, but feels thick enough to be warm, so he yanks it off the hanger and stuffs it into the bag. He takes a shirt and another blouse-like item of similar size and texture.

There are leather belts near the wall. He picks up a brown one as he checks off his mental notes. He snatches a vinyl rain poncho and throws it half into his nearly full bag.

He needs something else for it. He scans the isles and spots a newspaper dispenser as he heads to the front. He eyes it for a moment before he shoves his metal hand through the glass, shattering it. The shards chime across the floor as he pulls several newspapers out.

He’s starting to breath heavier with the activity. The mask is nearly suffocating around his face and he feels his own warm breaths cloud the inside. It’s getting harder and harder to move quickly and efficiently. The pressure between his legs is building.

This time, he can’t hold back a pained sound when his belly constricts. He nearly collides with one of the shelves, knocking a few items loose as the pain takes a new toll. He clutches his belly with his flesh hand as the powerful spasm surges through him. He’s suddenly consumed with an overwhelming urge to push and a low cry escapes him. For a moment, he thinks he might not be able to continue and that this is where it’s going to happen. The pain is so intense that it almost clouds his vision and he drops his head, hair falling around it.

But he can’t here. It isn’t safe. There are too many lights. Too many windows to place him on display for any curious passerby. He’s too close to the center of town and will surely alert someone with the characteristic sounds that he knows he’ll have no control over.

The pain finally starts to ebb and his proper judgment returns to him. He needs to get back to the car _now_.

He kicks a few of the fallen items out of the way, but before he turns to make his exit, his eyes fall on the front counter.

Something tugs at the back of his thoughts. He has no idea what. But it seems to contradict everything all at once. The mission, his orders, even his own instincts.

He doesn’t remember learning this from his superiors. But it isn’t a new sensation. It’s like he’s known it forever.

It doesn’t feel right. To just take his items and leave. Especially with the cyclone of damage he’d just caused. He finds himself staring at the counter in a near trance as the feeling resonates, creating a gateway to a plethora of other familiar sensations.

Only the beginning of a new wave of pain rouses him. He shakes himself out of it, realizing that he’d wasted almost an entire break between his contractions. His brain suddenly kicks into gear again and he shoves his hand through his pocket. He digs out a reasonable wad of cash and slaps it down onto the countertop as he whisks past it.

He doesn’t even make it to the back office door before it takes him. He has to stop himself from staggering as it claws through his insides. He groans in desperation and a wave of true panic courses through him. He tries to move forward in inches, but stops when he starts to feel something warm and wet trickle between his legs, feeling it soak into his pants.

He can smell it. There’s a hint of fresh blood. He doesn’t know entirely what that means, but he knows that his time is almost up.

He bursts from the building, shouldering through the broken door. He heads for a line of trees and follows along it until he reaches his car. He gets in, tossing the full bag into the passenger seat. He starts it up and floors the gas, peeling away from his parking spot in a 180. He doesn’t care about the obnoxious screeching of the tires and how it definitely will have alerted someone in one of the nearby houses. It isn’t his concern anymore.

He heads back to the outskirts of town. He’d seen many expansive properties with widely spaced buildings on his way in, far from the center of civilization. He needs to find something safe. Something dark and concealed.

Two more contractions come during his search, he nearly swerves during one of them.

He finally sees somewhere promising and pulls onto a gravel road, stopping next to a stretch of patchy, drying grass that leads to a tall chain-link fence. He grabs his supplies and gets out, quietly closing the door. He peers beyond the fence, scanning the spread out property. Whoever owns it clearly doesn’t want trespassers.

There’s a junkyard. A mountain of rusted car parts that occupies the corner of the property where he stands, overtaken by long, yellow grass and dotted with broken down cars in various states of wholeness. He can use it for cover.

There’s some kind of workshop across from the scrap heap. And about 30 yards beyond the pile is the dark silhouette of a large warehouse. It’s almost completely in darkness, the only light on the property is a weakly flickering orange street lamp in the far back, close to what looks like the property owner’s house. He narrows his eyes at it and sees that all the windows are completely dark.

He sniffs at the air. No dogs. He would’ve smelled them by now. A cat or two, but they aren’t a threat. No individual scent signatures either. Which means no one is outside.

This is just going to have to work. It seems safe enough at this point. And he knows that now, it’s too late anyway. He doesn’t have time to find anything else.

He needs to scale the fence. He stalks up to it, hooks his fingers into the holes and starts to haul himself up. The climb is a little too noisy for his liking, but he makes quick work of the task. He swings a leg over the top, lowers himself down over the other side and drops. Earlier, his fall from the hotel building at nearly twice the height had been a cinch. But the impact of his heavy boots hitting the hard-packed ground sends a jolt of sharp pain between his legs and through his heavy belly. He makes a pained sound when he lands. He needs a moment to recover, straightening and steadying himself on increasingly shaky legs. He looks around cautiously before he moves forward again.

The wind is biting cold, harsh and throwing his hair around his face. He’s downwind, so it won’t carry his scent, but it seems to work against him. Howling in his ears and pushing him back with chilling gusts.

He weaves between the car parts, staying low and keeping his eyes on the center of the property near the light. He keeps his footfalls soft, keeps his senses alert.

Then the pain hits.

This time, it’s like a knife to the gut that travels all the way through every muscle and sends his vision into a reddened haze. He has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out as he stumbles to the ground, landing on his hands and knees. It’s so powerful it racks his frame, sending his body into tremors. He grips the ground hard, crushing clumps of dead grass in fistfuls, hearing it crackle and tear up from the earth. The overwhelming pressure grows so immense that resisting the urge to push burns like a raging fire on his insides. It makes him tear up. He bares his teeth as his breathing comes shallow, gasping and whimpering quietly until it starts to pass.

But the pain doesn’t stop. He pushes himself up as soon as he’s able to, trying to keep himself standing and regain his footing. He’s reached the point that the burn is ongoing between the powerful contractions. His heart pounds in his ears and for a moment that’s all he can hear. He knows that if he falls again, he won’t be getting back up.

It’s a dozen more yards before he makes it to a clump of trees next to the building, relieved to find the side door there without having to look for it anywhere else. He won’t be able to walk for much longer.

It’s locked of course, so he doesn’t think twice before he grabs the handle, twists and pulls it so hard that it’s entire structure comes halfway out of the door. He braces himself before he delivers a single, powerful kick. It flies open, the deadbolt shattering part of the door frame to splinters.

It had hurt to do it and he reaches down to grasp the underside of his belly. He pushes in and shoves it shut behind him. The damage should make any reentry very difficult.

He stops the moment he’s shrouded in the deep shadows of the huge building, quieting his own breathing, eyes warily flickering through the darkness. The constriction in his belly doesn’t stop. It aches intensely and he hunches over slightly, his fingers gripping the material around it.

He sniffs, parting his lips to draw in the stagnant, industrial scents through the breath holes of his mask. He smells metal and dust. Motor oil, cedar, burnt rubber, and used machinery. And only stale scent signatures. A nervous jolt in his stomach follows the distant trace of an alpha’s powerful musk, but the rest of them are beta. And it’s been no less than 12 hours since any of them have been here.

He steps forward through the near pitch-blackness, even though he’s now straining to walk. Consciously trying not to collide with anything. The only sounds are the echo of the soft padding of his boots and the howl of the wind outside. It’s colder than the inside of the corner store, but at least he’s shielded from the weather.

He can’t make full surveillance of the interior because the only light in the building is that of tiny windows near the ceiling. They cast weak, bluish beams onto the concrete floor below. He doesn’t want to turn on his flashlight. Not yet.

He stops abruptly as he senses a large object in front of him. One more step forward would have lead him to run into a pallet stacker. He steps around the jutting metal appendages and picks up the pace.

He hobbles through a partially open wire partition, making out the silhouettes of tall storage racks and shelving systems. He hurries toward them, slipping into a gap between two that are perpendicularly placed. The rest are parallel and he heads to the ones that are closest to the wall. It’s in the back corner of the warehouse. The stretch of concrete between them is devoid of any objects and well hidden. It looks safe.

He barely makes it halfway before he’s seized with a body-gripping contraction. It shoots like lightning through him, surging up through his torso and spine and down his legs. He cries out, louder than he can help it. He lets the bag slip from his shoulder as he clutches his belly in both hands. He falls to his knees and then doubles over, fighting to steady his panicked breaths. There’s something solid between his legs, forcing it’s way through and crushing his insides, sending sparks of pain igniting in his core. His breath hitches and he squeezes his eyes shut.

It finally eases back enough to allow him to move again. He can’t take the suffocating tightness of the mask around his face for one more second. He claws at the clasps around the back of his head, flaying his hair until it slips off and the shockingly cold air bathes his cheeks, nose, and lips. He drops two pistols and a knife, then all but drags himself to the bag, reaching to pull it closer and frantically dig through it. His movements are distraught and frenetic and barely coordinated. He finds the flashlight and flips it on, angling it on its side so the beam won’t be seen through the windows. He tosses the belt near it then pulls out the vinyl poncho, ripping at the shoulders so it opens up more fully and does his best to spread it on the floor. The newspapers follow. He opens them up and presses them over the top of it.

Strict mission protocol is to leave as little DNA behind as possible. He tries to work more efficiently, knowing that his superiors won’t be pleased when they find him and his mess. He full-body quivers as he spreads the corners out with pawing, clumsy hands and trembling fingers.

He reaches back to yank his boots off, tossing them aside before he tries to ease himself onto his back, placing his rear over the covering but ending up nearly falling over. He lies down with a huff and starts working frantically at the buckle of his tac belt. His flesh hand is freezing almost to numbness and his metal one has never felt more clunky and useless. It takes a few more frustratingly long moments, during which he starts to panic as he thinks that he won’t be able to do it, when the latches finally come undone.

He huffs again as he pulls it apart, hooking his fingers under the waistband of his pants and shoving them down over his hips. He kicks them off as he feels the chill of the stuffy air and the concrete on his exposed skin. It’s even colder where it touches the swollen, glistening wet area between his legs.

He tried to leave his vest and chest holster on because the less of his armor he removes, the better. But now it feels horribly uncomfortable. Tight, constricting, and squeezing his bloated abdomen. It’s trapping his body and it’s only going to make all of this more difficult.

He lets out a grunt, reaching up to yank at the leather straps. Working desperately at the buckles pulled tight over his swollen breasts. He tries not to ruin it but can’t help but tear the tough material several times, peeling it away from his chest. The cold is equally as shocking on the newly bared skin, biting at his sensitive nipples as it ghosts over them. Lastly, he pulls the fingerless glove off his metal hand.

He’s fully naked now. Completely exposed. He adjusts himself, moving into position. He spreads his legs, knees up, and supports his weight on his elbows, looking down at his flushed, heaving body. He finally sees the true extent of his size. He hadn’t realized how big he actually is. Now he knows that he has to be carrying more than one. He watches the uneven rise and fall of the protruding roundness for a moment.

The last thing he does is grab the belt. He folds part of the end and stuffs it into his mouth.

He finally falls still, noticing for the first time how quiet it really is. And the extent of his exhaustion. He hasn’t even fully begun and he’s already having trouble holding himself up. He’s so tired.

The wind is still whistling outside, but it’s almost drowned out in his ears by the way his heart seems to knock against his ribcage.

His breathing is coming fast and shallow with apprehension. He tries to deepen it, bring it under control, but his heart is hammering too hard in his chest with his fear. He’s so scared.

He exhales, letting his head fall back a little, face trained toward the darkness of the ceiling. He closes his eyes as he waits for the next wave to overtake him.

It’s like an eternity passes before it finally does. And none of his previous pain could have prepared him for it. He let’s out a whimper as it begins. It’s like a vice crushing his middle, sending powerful ripples through his belly. The solid pressure in his channel feels like it’s pushing the bones in his pelvis apart. It burns white and hot inside him, ripping through his engorged passage. He groans and lets out a long, thin cry, biting down hard on the belt. He huffs around it and the moment it feels right, he finally gives a push.

It was almost too much. He full-body deflates, letting out an exasperated exhale. It was only the first one.

The pain increases exponentially with the next few. But he pushes hard and fervently every time. Soon, his eyes fly wide when he feels a bursting sensation inside him, before a gush of warm fluid spills out of him and soaks into the newspapers. The pressure grows crushing after that. Overwhelming. He strains to remain quiet, trying with everything in him to hold back his cries. Instead, they come out as clipped, throaty whines. He starts to glisten with a cold sheen of sweat, his damp hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead. His whole body is racked with tremors and he heaves for breath around the leather between his teeth.

He needs to change positions. Lift some of the weight off his rear. He heaves himself over onto his left side, supporting himself with his metal elbow. He tries to keep his legs spread as he feels some relief from the ache in his back. It doesn’t change how he feels stretched to bursting.

Time seems to drag by with deliberate slowness. He loses all sense of it in the extent of his agony. It feels like hours but he isn’t sure. The pain is so severe that it reaches to the ends of all of his extremities, blurring his vision, ravaging his tired muscles and laying his body out to a limp, spasming heap. He’s bleeding, though he doesn’t know how heavily. His eyes sting with hot tears that stain his reddened cheeks.

He’s gravely exhausted. He almost doesn’t know if he can carry on.

“... _You feel so good. You like this and you know it. This is what you were made for_...”

His heart skips in his chest as the voice echoes as a moan in the back of his mind. Husky with arousal, breath hot on his neck. He doesn’t remember whose it is.

“ _Yeah...Take it, you little cockslut_...”

His breath catches and he makes an involuntary choked sound.

He’s delirious. The pain is taking him through gateways in his mind.

He flinches as he feels the ghost of chains around his wrists, reinforced with leather. The misplaced picture continues to bloom in his mind. He feels himself strained up to the ceiling, stunned and half hanging, eyes widened and mouth dropped open in pain. The chains rattle as he jolts in them, fingers flexing helplessly, wrists squeezed too hard in the tight restraints. A hot, solid body crushing his, damp with sweat, brutal and vigorous. Taunts whispered in his ear.

An icy chill grips his spine. He whimpers and shakes his head, trying to push the disturbing image away.

It’s the pain and the blood loss. He’s losing his focus. If he doesn’t stay alert, he might black out.

He thinks about what his superiors will do. How he’ll fail them if he were to die. How he already has failed them. He knows they’ll be angry with him. Because he knows he could’ve done better.

He’s panting, head hung back and eyes half closed. But he won’t give up yet. He has to keep trying.

He weakly reaches his flesh hand between his legs and his jaw nearly drops when he feels the solid mass in his passage. The rounded top of a head, feathered with thin, silky little hairs.

It’s—a _pup_. _His_ pup. A _baby_.

A new energy seems to blaze to life in him. An instinctual determination. He starts to massage at the swollen, overstretched skin of his opening. Trying to ease it around the head trapped behind it. It finally crowns with the next push and a bright, flashing pain slices through him, followed by a fresh flow of hot fluid. His vision whites out and he can longer restrain himself, throwing his head back in a hoarse wail. The metallic tang of blood fills the air.

He screams in agony again when the head pushes all the way through. It finally comes out and he feels the moment the intense pressure lets up.

He gives one last push and the rest of the body seems to fall out of him with a wet sound.

Suddenly nothing else matters. He spits the belt out and scrambles to get up, ignoring the way every part of him protests the movement, trying to get a glimpse of the baby. _His_ baby.

The world seems to stop spinning the moment he sees it. Covered in blood and fluids but nonetheless, a _baby_. And so, so _tiny_. Unbelievably tinier than it felt inside him. Tiny hands and tiny feet, and a little pink mouth stretched open in a silent cry.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that this is what he was preparing for. He hadn’t truly thought about how he’s been carrying actual pups in his belly. But it changes everything.

He scrambles forward again, reaching out to grasp the little body. It’s a girl. He moves to pick her up off of the wet newspaper, trying to wipe away some of the blood from her skin with shaking hands, adjusting the umbilical cord that’s partially twisted around her leg. He feels pulses of nervousness when he realizes that she isn’t making a sound. Her little limbs are twitching feebly but it doesn’t look like she’s breathing.

He starts to rub her back gently but vigorously, trying to activate her lungs. It doesn’t work, so he resorts to a CPR method, placing his mouth over hers and her nose and breathing into her gently.

It takes a few tries, but he finally feels her take a breath. Soft mewls escape her and he brings her against his body. He tries to gently scoop some of the residue out of her mouth with a finger. He reaches for the scattered pile of garments and grabs the shawl, draping it over the tiny pup to shield her from the cold.

She needs to eat. His breasts are full, so he moves to initiate nursing. He supports her with his right arm and guides his nipple into her mouth with his metal hand. She latches on and her tiny gums knead at his sensitive flesh as he feels his letdown.

He lets out a mortal sigh and closes his eyes. Everything throbs. It’s like his blood is pulsating and slow in his veins. His throat aches from screaming and his lungs feel sore. Then he looks down at his daughter’s little face and none of that seems to matter. He basks in the period of rest, letting the serene moment of meeting and feeding his newborn relax him.

But he isn’t done. His belly is still distended. The pressure is still there. There’s another one in him.

He estimates about 15 minutes before the contractions start up again in full. He has to maneuver himself back into a laying position, trying to get comfortable while also supporting the pup. The pain returns in a flood. He’s so exhausted and he fears that he isn’t strong enough to deliver again. But as he pushes and the agitating burn starts up all over again, he finds it strangely easier than the first time. The little pup seems to slip right through his already stretched birth canal, the head easing past the rim of his opening with much less resistance. He screams when it crowns, but only once.

He has to set down his first pup to tend to the newest one. He tries his best to wrap her thoroughly in the shawl before he places her right at his thigh.

This time, it’s a boy. And he’s not moving.

He works frantically to try to liven him. It takes a terribly long time, but he finally sees him gulp a breath, working him to twitches and tiny whimpers. He wastes no time in covering him and bringing him to his other breast.

He sits there as the tiny boy weakly suckles, cradling both pups against his sweating body. The girl is most likely a beta. He knows that most girls are, bar from the small fraction that are omegas. But at this stage, there’s no way to externally tell if either of them will present as beta, alpha, or omega.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find out.

He’s sitting in a pool of his own blood, slick, and amniotic fluids. The poncho and newspapers had caught most of the mess, but some of it had leaked onto the smooth concrete. He isn’t going to be able to clean it up.

He needs to lean back a little when he feels something else trying to come out of him. He gives a few pushes and realizes it’s the placenta. It adds even more blood to the mixture. His belly is flat now, but feels gelatinous, sore and tenderized. And still pulsing with pain.

He lies down on his side, setting the two bundled pups close to his middle. He works to open up their wrappings enough to press them both against his heated skin, pulling the garments over his shoulder.

He curls himself around them, trying to ignore the inevitable truth. Neither of them had uttered even a weak cry after their birth. They haven’t shown many signs of strength. He’d known something had been wrong from the beginning.

And he knows there’s nothing else he can do for them.

He holds them tighter, pressing their bare skin to his and feeling a whirlpool of emotions. Panic at the entire occurrence. Distraught and determined as he tries to run through ideas in his head on how to save his newborns. Despair and bone-drying sadness when he realizes that he can’t. Partially because he can’t move. He can’t leave this spot. By now, his superiors will have realized that he’s not at the extraction point, and have more than likely tracked his current location. They’ll be sending someone after him if they haven’t already.

And he’s too weak. In too much pain. The labor had voraciously consumed all of his energy and the loss of blood is taking its toll. He doesn’t think he has the strength even to redress himself, let alone fix this mess before his superiors arrive. He isn’t strong enough to take care of his pups.

He’s failed. Failed the organization, failed his superiors. And now, he’s failed his own children.

The sadness turns to agony as he feels the light of life slowly dying out of his babies. He holds them close against him but the warmth of his skin isn’t enough. His superiors would know what to do for them, but it could be hours before they arrive.

He feels a twinge of aggression at the thought. He doesn’t want them or anyone to touch his pups _anyway_.

He bows his head over them, shielding them with his body. He presses his nose and lips against his tiny son’s forehead and lets the overwhelming reality crush his heart under a thousand pounds, gripping it and tearing it to shreds like malignant talons.

He wants to go with them. Wherever they’re going. They’re leaving him and he can’t join them. He feels the burning sting of hot tears in his eyes but he doesn’t utter a sob. His face doesn’t contort with pain. The tears fall and one of them trails down the cheek of his lifeless son’s face.

The cheap flashlight dies out on its own.

*****

He jolts awake to the sound of distant banging commotion and the shuffle of many footsteps. He sees scattered beams of light through the narrow spaces of the storage shelves and the rustling sound of heavy gear with swift movement. Voices and the static crackle of communicators. It grows louder and louder until he knows it’s headed towards him.

He can hardly feel some parts of his body, he’s so cold. But that seems to change as he lifts his head weakly and sees a group of dark figures looming over him, casting blinding white beams down on him and his naked form. They’ve surrounded him and he hears the tell-tale clicking sounds of loaded weapons. All locked on him.

He instinctually shrivels away from the exposure and curls his body more tightly around his lifeless pups, still intent on protecting them. He’s back to trembling and ducks his head, avoiding looking up at the men as he feels the heat of their gazes under the ink-blackness of their visors and faceless masks. Trying to ignore the sharp contrast he feels at his state of vulnerability in the presence of their jet-black, heavily armed forms.

They stand like sentinels around him, not moving or speaking. Then a single pair of footsteps breaks the silence and another man shoulders his way to the front. He’s a very large, muscular beta, wearing just as much black gear as the rest of them. But no mask covers his strong features. Nothing obstructing the flames in his sharp eyes. He must be the squad captain.

He looks down at the Asset with a mixture of mild surprise and criticism, set in the curve of his thick brows. Then his face relaxes as he observes the scene, apparently with realization. The Asset is a wet, bloody mess. His gear and weapons are strewn around him. The floor is smeared with red and so is the Asset’s body. Two umbilical cords trail out from between his legs and disappear under the cover of the blood-stained garments draped over the omega’s shoulder.

The captain tilts his chin up and scratches it, a slight curve to his mouth.

“Well, whadda we got here?”

His voice is rough and deep, and he says it more like a statement rather than an actual question. Then the apparent dangerous playfulness seems to fade slightly with his next question. One the omega had known and feared would come.

“Asset, why are you not at your extraction point?”

It seems like the answer is obvious, but it’s still a reasonable inquiry. He couldn’t even begin to explain what had happened to him in the last 12 hours.

The Asset swallows and keeps his head low. “Compromised...” he starts, voice hoarse and barely more than a croak. “Physical state unfit. Malfunctioned... _Ya ne mog etogo sdelat_ '...”

The man raises an eyebrow, nodding with an exaggerated expression. “Is that so? What about your mission report?”

“Success. Target eliminated.”

“And the briefcase?”

“In the...car...”

The man huffs, “Then it looks like we’ve got nothin’ to worry about, now do we?”

The Asset eyes the man warily as he starts to slowly circle him. Heavy, steel-toed boots coming to stop by the omega’s head. He falls into a crouch close in front of him and the Asset looks up at him, still keeping his head low in submission.

“Well come on then,” he says gently, a contradicting tone to his gruff voice. “Let’s see.”

The Asset doesn’t move, looking up at the big beta from under his lashes and between the locks of his damp, frazzled hair. The captain scoffs. “No need to be selfish, now,” he says, and the circle of agents all shift in unison in the same moment he reaches out and grasps a corner of the shawl, lifting it up to reveal the two tiny bodies. They’re tucked protectively behind the Asset’s metal arm. They’ve long since gone still, but their skin still retains a little of its pinkish flush.

The captain tilts his head slightly as he observes them. Then he purses his lips and slowly shakes his head.

“Hmm. That’s a damn shame.”

The Asset has to bite back the growl that starts to rise in his throat. He says it as if it’s a household accident. A vase of flowers fallen and shattered on the floor. The Asset doesn’t want this man to touch his pups.

The big man drops the shawl again and stands with a sigh. He waves two fingers in a commanding gesture. “Paramedics,” he orders, and several of the armed agents turn and shuffle away.

He puts his hands on his hips, “Alright, let’s wrap this up. Bring in the techs, this might get a little hairy—“

His sentence is interrupted by an angry shout from somewhere behind them, followed by the sound of a loading shotgun.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The Asset curls up even tighter. It must be the property owner.

The black-clad agents turn their guns and lights on the man as he approaches. The Asset cranes his neck over his shoulder to get a better view. He can just barely see him past the others and the storage shelves but he’s holding his gun aimed at the group.

The captain turns around slowly, calmly raising his hands up, “Now hold on. Take it easy, sir, I assure you, this isn’t what it looks—“

“This is private property!” He cuts off the captain again, “All you arrogant government fucks think you can just do whatever—“ He stops abruptly when he comes close enough to see the Asset. “What the hell is this?”

The Asset tenses. The man’s gun is now pointed at him. “Why the fuck is there an omega in my workshop? And he’s ruined my floors!”

The owner’s gun swings recklessly back at the captain as he addresses him, “Listen, we need you to calm down, alright? We’ve got everything under control. Just put the gun down.”

“You better get a damn warrant,” the gray-haired man spits. “I want everything on papers! And fix this shit too. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing here,” he says with venom in his tone, gesturing scornfully toward the omega on the floor.

The captain takes the initiative and places a hand over the shotgun, lowering it and using his other hand to guide the man to turn around.

“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” the beta says, voiced tuned to the perfect notch of charm and appeasement. “We’ll get you your papers. We’ll also make sure any expenses are paid for and all damaged equipment is replaced. But I’m gonna have to ask you to exit...”

More black-clad agents start to file in, weaving their way past the two men and the storage shelves. The owner’s face swings back and forth disbelievingly as they pass him, before he turns back to the captain.

“Then that thing better be gone off my property before sunrise,” the owner growls.

“Alright, we’ll get him outta here,“ replies the captain.

“I want all of his filth cleaned up too.”

“Absolutely.”

The new agents that enter start to circle the Asset, murmuring to each other about his stability and condition. He tightens his arm around his pups and tries to stifle another growl as they come near, starting to pull out various medical equipment. They take his blood pressure and check his vitals. Then he hears someone’s reassuring whispers behind him and a hand sweeps his hair away from his skin. He flinches when he feels a sharp pain towards the back of his neck.

“I promise, we’ve got it handled,” the captain assures. “We’ll make sure everything is taken care of.”

The Asset just barely sees the moment the captain brings a gun to the back of the man’s head. The shot rings out through the hollowness of the warehouse. His vision starts to blur, and he catches the collapse and thud of the man’s body hitting the floor before everything fades to black.

                    ___________

 

He doesn’t fight as the machine descends around him. His breaths are caught in his throat, chest rising up and down rapidly and unevenly in fear, but he doesn’t squirm. His wrists and arms are locked down, the cold of metal digging into his bare skin, but he hardly feels any of it.

He knows this pain. He’s felt it before even though he doesn’t remember. He knows what’s about to happen.

He still feels the pain of his labor. Feels the way it stings and pulses between his legs. He feels the painful emptiness of his sore belly. Reminding him that they existed. That they were there and they were _his_.

He sees the blur of the figures in white lab coats, hears them carry out their indistinct conversations casually.

It’s like he’s made of lead. His body feels so heavy, sinking deeper into the chair because it doesn’t have the proper qualities of a body anymore. Because everything is gone out of him. Because this pain is different. And he’d do anything to have it gone.

He couldn’t save them. In the hours since they’d found him in the warehouse, he’s grown more accepting of that. Giving in to the pulsing ache. They were too weak. Their little bodies were too delicate. Something went wrong that he couldn’t control. That he couldn’t punch or shoot or chase away. Though it’s what he burned to do.

He knows he’ll never understand the true nature of the disposition that had killed his pups.

He knows he did his best. He did all he could to be there for them. To love them and care for them in the short period of time they were together. And he knows they felt it. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

He doesn’t fight as he feels his body being contorted and arched painfully on the chair. As the mechanical parts close around his head and blind him.

He fears the pain of it, but now, he almost anticipates it. Not even the jolting razor-blades and horrendous burn of the shock coursing through his brain could compare to this. He’ll let it take him.

His teeth clench down on the bite guard as he closes his eyes tight. The tears spill down the sides of his face.

He screams as he feels the claws of electricity dissolve his mind to ashes, scattered on raging winds. But he doesn’t fight it. He keeps his eyes closed as he let’s it tear his fibers apart. Burn through the new connections in his mind like old photographs.

His body slumps when it stops, twitching violently as the last of the shock dissipates through his skull. He stares blankly up at the dark ceiling, lying limply in the chair as the machine lifts off of him.

There are tears on the sides of his face.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry for handing out free tickets for the pain train. I’m also sorry if my Russian is trash. I’m about as bilingual as a tree stump. What Bucky is supposed to have said to the captain is, “I couldn’t make it”. If not, somebody correct me.
> 
> Feedback and comments are welcome and very greatly appreciated!


End file.
